Front Lines. Майкл Грант

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СКАЧАТЬ fidgets and suddenly looks panicky. He’s been hiding this earth-shattering truth.

      “I’m not leaving her in the lurch,” he says. And now the tears are threatening to fill his eyes, and that, Rainy knows, will humiliate him. But his humiliation can wait. First . . .

      She slaps him hard on the cheek. It makes a satisfyingly loud crack, so she does it again.

      “I thought you would—”

      “You thought? You didn’t think. Or at least you thought with the wrong part of your body!” The fact that Rainy’s tone is an almost perfect reflection of her mother’s voice is not lost on Rainy, but she pushes past that moment of realization.

      Aryeh’s miserable but defiant as well. “I love her, Rainy. I mean, it’s the real thing, and she’s pregnant, and I’m going off to . . . to maybe . . . And she’ll be all alone.” And then adds, “And broke.”

      “Ah. Here it comes. The final shoe.”

      “We’re getting married tomorrow. I can give her my allotment, but it won’t be enough, not in this city. She’ll need more.”

      “You want me to help.”

      “It’s a lot to ask.”

      “It can’t be a lot because I don’t have a lot. A PFC stationed overseas earns $597.60 a year.”

      “You’ll be a corporal in no time,” he says with a winning grin.

      “Like hell,” Rainy snaps. “I’ll be a sergeant in no time.” She shakes her head in a show of disappointment, but of course she’s already decided to help, and her brother knows it.

      “You’re the best, sis. Just don’t tell . . . you know.”

      “So you want money and discretion. Swell. Anything else?”

      “You’ll help.”

      “Of course I’ll help. You’re my brother, how can I not help?”

      “Lots of sisters wouldn’t,” he says.

      She goes on shaking her head woefully, face grim, sending him the message that this is serious, sending him the message that he had better not screw up any more. But he’s Aryeh, so most likely he will.

      “If it’s a girl we’ll name it after you.”

      “I’m going to slap you again.”

      “I have it coming,” Aryeh says.

6

       FRANGIE MARR—GREENWOOD DISTRICT, TULSA, OKLAHOMA

      “So, tell me: what is on your mind, Frangie girl?”

      The question comes from Pastor John M’Dale, the spiritual leader of Frangie’s family. He’s a middle-aged man, a serious man, a thoughtful man, a scholar even, cursed (or blessed) with a round, cherubic face. His office is all dark wood, books, dust, a big globe on a three-legged stand, a small stuffed pheasant, and various symbols of his faith and position. The chair Frangie occupies is cracked leather and feels vast. She resists the urge to swivel it back and forth.

      “I’m signing up, I guess,” Frangie says. “So I wanted to tell you I won’t be singing in the choir anymore for a while.”

      M’Dale sits back and takes a long, deep breath, nodding and looking closely at Frangie. “Your daddy still out of work?”

      “Don’t imagine he’ll be working ever again, Pastor M.”

      He nods. It’s not the first time he’s heard a story like this. “You think you want to fight in this war of white men killing Japanese or else killing other white men?”

      “I don’t aim to kill anyone. I aim to try out for medic.”

      “Well, that is honorable work, Frangie. But even if all you’re doing is patching up hurt boys, you’d still be part of it all.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      She gives in to the urge to swing the chair left to right and back, just a small motion but comforting. She looks down, finding his gaze too challenging. There’s a small feather, like a crow’s pinfeather, on the rug, and it’s drifting in the breeze of her chair’s motion.

      “I can tell you what the Bible says about that.” He’s forming a tent out of his fingers, sticking the tips up under his ample chin. “First, love. You know that, you know that if you pay attention during my sermons.” He winks at her. “You do pay attention now, don’t you?”

      She welcomes his bantering tone. “I memorize every word, Pastor M.”

      He laughs. When he laughs, he shakes, and that makes Frangie smile.

      “First, love. Love above all. Love for the ones who love you, love for the ones who hate you. That’s pretty hard to follow if you’re in a war.”

      “Were you ever?”

      The question takes M’Dale by surprise. He sits farther back still and drops his hands to his lap. “No, young miss Marr, I have not. But I have counseled many men who did go to the last war.”

      “Yes, sir,” Frangie prompts.

      “Well, they talk about the horrors. But they do also talk about the brotherhood with other black soldiers. I’ve only ever spoken with one who acknowledges taking a life. He says it was either shoot that other man, or be shot himself.”

      “I guess that’s what war is,” Frangie says. “But it’s also patching a fellow up after he’s been shot.”

      “Our friends of the Jewish faith say that he who saves a single life saves the world entire,” M’Dale says. “I may not have that quotation quite right, but the sense of it is there. That’s not from scripture, but I believe our Lord would agree with the sentiment. But real life can be more complicated than that. You heal a soldier in a war, and he goes off next thing to take a man’s life. How then do you avoid responsibility for that death?”

      “Sometimes you have to fight,” Frangie says.

      “Sometimes you do. Sadly, yes, sometimes you do. And what would you be fighting for, Frangie Marr?”

      “Fighting for ?”

      The question overwhelms her and she has to think about it, and as she thinks she looks down at the feather, more like down, really, it’s so light. Its little feathery fate rests on the next breeze.

      “Should I not go, Pastor?” It will be easier if he forbids it. If he forbids it then she’ll have to find some other way to support her mother and father. Some other way to make her own life better than her mother’s life.

      “I can’t tell you go or don’t go,” M’Dale says at last. СКАЧАТЬ